The Heart's Quite Beginning

Chapter 12: The Unlikely Festival Leader

Mrs. Pritchard stood up at the front of the room, her towering beehive wobbling precariously as she shuffled to the podium. Her throat-clearing cut through the chatter, the kind of sound that demanded immediate attention, and like magic, the room fell into silence. I could feel the tension rising, like everyone was bracing for whatever absurd topic we were about to dive into.

"As many of you know," Mrs. Pritchard began, her voice firm and clear, "the Harvest Festival is fast approaching, and we need to decide on who's going to take what roles this year."

There it was. The festival. I had heard about it since the day I moved here. Everyone talked about it like it was some sacred event, a blend of tradition, chaos, and—if the rumors were true—a breeding ground for small-town drama. This was going to be my first time attending, and while I was excited, a part of me was also nervous. Festivals had a way of pulling people in—whether you wanted to be involved or not.

Immediately, voices started overlapping as the villagers tossed out suggestions, arguments, and excuses.

Mrs. Honeywell's knitting needles clicked rhythmically as she spoke up from her spot in the back, her voice cutting through the hum of chatter. "Well, someone needs to be in charge of the food stalls. And the decorations! We can't have another year of mismatched pumpkins like last time."

Her words set off a chain reaction of voices, each louder than the last. Mrs. Fletcher, who seemed to have a talent for contradicting, immediately jumped in.

"Oh, please, the pumpkins were fine," she said with a dismissive wave. "What we really need is a proper judge for the pie competition! Last year was a disaster."

I glanced over at Iris, who was doing her best to suppress a smile. The tension in the room was simmering just beneath the surface, but it wasn't the kind that made you nervous. It was more like being in the middle of a big, dysfunctional family argument where everyone was far too invested in the outcome, but secretly enjoyed the drama.

From somewhere behind us, Mr. Johnson piped up, his voice dripping with amusement. "You're just saying that because you didn't win, Mrs. Fletcher!"

Mrs. Fletcher's eyes narrowed, her face flushing with indignation. "I didn't win because someone—" she shot a sharp look in Mr. Johnson's direction, "—tampered with my oven settings!"

A ripple of laughter ran through the room, and I couldn't help but join in. It was ridiculous, yet it was these kinds of small-town squabbles that made this place feel so alive. Ethan leaned over, his voice low but with that teasing edge he always had.

"This is the part where the pie-judging debate turned into an all-out food war," he said, smirking.

I grinned, shaking my head. "And here I was thinking I'd have a peaceful night."

As the bickering continued, Mrs. Pritchard cleared her throat, a sound that instantly commanded attention. She stood at the front of the room, arms crossed and gaze sweeping across the crowd. "Alright, enough! We're here to assign roles, not point fingers."

Her tone left no room for argument, and the room quieted once more, though I could still hear Mr. Johnson muttering something under his breath about sabotaged pies. Mrs. Pritchard ignored him, flipping through the stack of papers in front of her with all the gravitas of a general preparing for battle.

"The food stalls," she began, her voice sharp and businesslike. "Who's going to be in charge of organizing the vendors this year?"

A silence fell over the room as people suddenly found their shoes, the ceiling, or in Nova's case, the grain of the wooden floor, to be incredibly fascinating. It was almost comical how quickly everyone turned into experts at avoiding eye contact. Mrs. Pritchard, however, was not the kind of woman to let people off easy.